


Hardly A Walk In the Park

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:51:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Kuryakin find themselves in the middle of the anti-war protests during the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardly A Walk In the Park

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a mfuwss easter egg over on Live Journal for loxleyprince. The prompt was Napoleon and Illya in the middle of a historical situation.

The tension in the park, thicker than the incessant wet blanket of humidity that wrapped up Chicago, made Napoleon's head hurt. Well, it was either the tension, or the sun. He had been looking west for nearly three hours now, sunglasses relieving only some of the brightness bouncing off the tall buildings across Michigan Avenue. The Chicago police—with the assistance of the National Guard and the Secret Service—worked hard to keep the ten thousand (or more) antiwar protesters in Grant Park. Fortunately, most of the protesters had engaged in the MOBE (National Mobilization to End the War in Vietnam) rally at the bandshell. The Usual Gang of Idiots, which to the U.N.C.L.E. Chicago office meant such anti-war personalities as Norman Mailer, Allen Ginsburg, Jerry Rubin, and Tom Hayden—had been speaking most of the day. Police surrounded the rally as best they could; not too far away, the National Guard surveyed things from the top of the Field Museum. Additional National Guardsmen blocked off several bridges, preventing access to Michigan Avenue (and thus the rest of the Loop) by the protestors.

Solo sighed. U.N.C.L.E. had become involved only because of a favor owed—Waverly would say no more. Most of the Midwest U.N.C.L.E. offices operated on a skeleton crew, every available agent convening to help keep both sides (the protestors and law enforcement) safe. East Coast U.N.C.L.E. offices (including some of the Ontario and Quebec ones) watched over the rallies while the Midwest agents watched the watchmen at the Democratic Convention several miles away.

So far, in the two days Solo and his partner had been part of the assignment, he had seen several dozen kids get their skulls beaten in, hundreds more tear-gassed, and no one spared any mercy. He completely understood why the protestors referred to the police as "pigs." He also got why many policemen (and Americans generally over the age of 30) referred to the protestors as smelly, unkempt hippies. Even those who appeared clean-cut needed a bath and fresh clothes after several days of outside living in the heat and humidity.

He could use a shower himself… a shower, and a trip to Taylor Street for Italian food, a stiff martini or three, and one of Mario's outstanding ices for dessert. He didn't think he would get that, though. He wasn't even sure he would get much sleep tonight.

Solo retrieved his handkerchief from his jacket pocket, quickly patted the worst of the sweat off his forehead and neck, and tucked it back away. His back faced Lake Shore Drive; he wished he had chosen to be stationed nearer Buckingham Fountain, so that the cool spray might make everything seem less heated.

The speaker—and by now he had lost track which Idiot was on stage—didn't have the best presence. Most of the crowd seemed bored and restless, stirring to life only when the speaker would launch into a round of "The whole world is watching" or "Out of Vietnam now" or (Solo's personal least-favorite) "Death to the Pigs!" The kids weren't doing themselves any favors by agreeing….

"Here—you look like you can use this." Illya materialized at his side, offering him a cup of ice water.

"Thanks, my friend." He allowed himself three fast gulps before slowing down the pace. "What's the latest?" He gestured at the earphone that connected Illya to U.N.C.L.E. communications. (Anyone else would think he was listening to the radio, since the communicator that stuck out of his jacket's breast pocket looked uncannily like a transistor radio.)

The Russian shrugged. "About what you'd expect, really. The police are antsy, the protestors are antsy, and the Peace Platform is being voted on at the Amphitheatre. Today's not going to end well."

"I have that feeling, too."

"I am sorry that your country has fallen like this."

Napoleon gave Illya a pointed look. "Fallen? How?"

"Well, your police acting like the KGB for one thing, bashing heads and quashing uprising."

"I'd call those growing pains."

"Growing pains?" Kuryakin parroted.

"There's something going on with the young generation—something that will revolutionize how we see the world, how we see people's place in society. I'd like to think I'm still young enough to get it."

Illya remained quiet for a moment. "The last time my country had a revolution, we ended up under Communist rule."

"America has flirted with several forms of socialism before. We're just too selfish to want everything owned by everyone."

"Whereas the Russians expect to be repressed, so it doesn't matter who represses them."

"Ah, part of the national psyche."

"Something like that." Illya cocked his head suddenly, obviously listening to something in his earphone. "Oh bother."

"What?"

"Peace platform failed."

Solo closed his eyes a moment, sad for what was about to go down. "Well, not surprising."

"And we're supposed to withdrawal."

"Just us?"

"No, all agents. We've been pulled because the Old Man has concluded that the favor has been fulfilled and any further involvement by organization would be inappropriate."

"Ah, leaving internal matters to the country itself to deal with."

"As long as there's no undue international or Thrush influence."

"Naturally not. Let's get out of here before—oh."

Kuryakin followed his partner's line of sight. Several young men in the audience had raised their radios in the air, shouting the news about the platform failure. News spread quickly; it took only two minutes for the platform failure to be announced from the stage… followed by a cry to march to the Amphitheatre to protest the vote. The U.N.C.L.E. agents watched as protestors surged, police responded by advancing, protestors countered by forming a line in between the cops and the audience, and police took advantage by bashing heads in.

"We had best leave," Kuryakin commented. "Both the Jackson and the Monroe bridges are open. Jackson is nearer, of course."

"All right, then." Solo turned to his left; Kuryakin casually fell in line with him as they headed south toward Jackson and the bridge that would get them out of the park.

As they neared the bandshell, the clash between protestors and police expanded. In the distance, Napoleon could see a young man lowering the American flag from the pole adjacent to the bandshell. Police pulled him off the pole, billy clubs emphasizing how naughty he had been. Several other protestors, though, finished the job, exchanging a bloodied rag for the flag as they hoisted a new piece of cloth to the top of the pole. The police advanced in earnest then; protestors started throwing anything they could find to fight back. Kuryakin increased his speed. Solo lingered behind, trying to catch what the young man on stage was saying. He caught the phrase "march to the Amphitheatre" and stopped in his tracks.

Kuryakin returned to his side. "What's wrong, my friend?"

"We have to do something, Illya."

"We can't."

"It hasn't stopped us before."

"We've never been in the middle of a bloodbath before. We're out-numbered, Napoleon. Even were we to wade in, we'd be no better than the police."

"Who said we'd be on their side?"

The agents glared at each other a moment, Illya supremely annoyed that his partner's conscience chose this particular moment to act up, and Napoleon supremely annoyed that his partner's sense of fair play had abandoned him.

An anguished scream nearby snapped them out of their mutual annoyance. A young woman was holding onto a policeman's legs, trying to stop him and another officer from subduing a young man with their billy clubs. The man, already on the ground and bleeding profusely from his head, had curled up in the fetal position in a feeble attempt to protect those parts of himself not already injured. "Stop! Stop please! Can't you see he's hurt?" the woman screeched.

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances, nodding to each other once. They pulled their U.N.C.L.E. Specials out of their holsters, tranquilized the policemen, and re-secured their guns before anyone realized they had acted. The woman gasped as the officers collapsed, but immediately went to the young man to check his condition.

"Should we help?" Napoleon wondered.

"We've done all we can for him already, unless you have some advanced medical training I'm unaware of."

"Yeah, our basic first-aid knowledge won't do squat, will it?" Solo sighed again. "What an awful day."

"And it will only get worse, if the protestors actually escape the park." Kuryakin resumed walking; Solo fell into step with him. "Our medics have already begun infiltrating."

"Infiltrating? You make it sound like a mission."

"Have you _seen_ the blockades further south?" They reached the Jackson bridge and joined the small but steady stream of people leaving Grant Park. As they crossed over the South Shore line train tracks, they spotted several U.N.C.L.E. agents with medical kits and Red Cross armbands heading the other direction. "There you go," Kuryakin confirmed.

"Right as always, my friend. Back to HQ? Perhaps we can figure out a way to _really_ help the situation once out of the sun and into the a/c."

"Food first. Haven't eaten properly all day and I'm starting to get cranky."

"Let's take a stroll over to the Berghoff, then. Near enough to the action if we're recalled, far enough to the action not to be surrounded by the National Guard."

"Agreed. I've had enough of this police state."

"Too much like home?"

"Rank amateurs, compared to home." Illya smiled slightly at Napoleon's confused expression. "I'm not the only one needing food, I see."

"Now that you mention it…."

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence.


End file.
